


'Tis Better to Have Loved

by romeokijai



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Christmas is mentioned, F/M, Gift Fic, Grief, Loneliness, Post Patriot War, Post Season 2, don't read if you're looking for something light and cheery, for the purposes of this fic the comics never existed, holiday fic ... sorta?, no seriously ... ANGST, or a happy ending, this is not for the faint of heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 22:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5719189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romeokijai/pseuds/romeokijai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today (Christmas morning, some part of her mind cruelly reminds her) as she lies in bed, cold, slender fingers absently stroking the empty space beside her, she hates those noises. Every goddamned one of them. Hates this house. Hates this fucking bed. Hates it all.</p><p>---</p><p>For TheCursedChild who asked for a naughty or nice (or angsty?) Christmas fic set in the blackout world featuring a potentially depressed/suicidal Charlie with the prompt words ‘fire’ and ‘snow.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Tis Better to Have Loved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheCursedChild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCursedChild/gifts).



> Ummm…so this took a very unexpected and much darker turn than I had initially planned. I had every intention of giving this a happy, resolved ending, but then the muse demanded that it end on an open-ended, less than happy note. So, TheCursedChild, a couple of things: First, I am terribly sorry for the delay on getting you your gift exchange fic. Second, I’m genuinely sorry that you’re not getting a happy, fluffy, nice or naughty Christmas fic. HOWEVER, based on the more specific prompts you sent GSC via email, I’m going to assume that this isn’t a complete turn off for you. ;)
> 
> Originally, I had a totally different idea that I spent weeks and weeks and weeks trying to make work, but it was turning into an epic (which I really don’t have time to write), and, on top of that, real life recently decided to throw a whole bunch of crap at me, and I sadly lost the emotional stamina required to write that story. So, after a lot of thought, I made the excruciatingly tough decision to set it aside and try something else (the result ... this). I might go back to that other idea next Christmas, and if I do, that story will still be dedicated to you, because it was your prompts that inspired it. But I hope this kinda, sorta suffices in the meantime (didn’t want you to be left completely empty-handed for this year’s fic exchange!). And again - sorry that this isn’t exactly puppies holding kittens (or porn)! Regardless, I hope you enjoy this. As short and dark as this is, I enjoyed writing this. And I hope you enjoy reading it too (well, as much as one can ‘enjoy’ a piece like this). And if you hate it, then … well, honestly, I understand. :)

  

* * *

 

She can hear the waves gently crashing against the beach. Can hear the seagulls bellowing in the morning sky, and the orcas singing their whale song in the distance. She’s been hearing these same sounds every day for the past two years, sounds that once lulled her to sleep at night. Sounds that greeted her when she woke in the morning, safe and secure and always wrapped in his arms. Sounds that served as a beautiful backdrop to their whispered or giggled secrets - or to their loudest, angriest fights. 

 

Today (Christmas morning, some part of her mind cruelly reminds her) as she lies in bed, cold, slender fingers absently stroking the empty space beside her, she hates those noises. Every goddamned one of them. Hates this house. Hates this fucking bed. Hates it all.

 

Her legs ache beneath the covers at the mere thought of crawling out of bed. But the house is freezing. Her breath leaves her chapped lips in frozen, foggy wisps, and if she doesn’t get up and build a fire soon, she knows she very well might freeze to death. 

 

Would it be the worst thing in the world, though, if she…?

 

She pushes back the covers. 

 

It’s snowing, she realizes, when she gets up and opens the drapes, letting the gray light of day into the room. But none of it is sticking. Not that it ever really does out here on the Washington Coast. (It’s one of the reasons they settled here. Milder winters and cool summers, she’d once insisted, when they were trying to figure out where to live. With the war over and the country in rebuilding, the options were surprisingly many. He’s smiled - teeth and dimples and crow’s feet on full display; big, blue eyes glittering with so much love and devotion and promise. He’d told her to pack her bags. And she’d obeyed. And then he’d led her here, to the tiny coastal town of Westport. Here, they would stay, whether Blanchard liked it or not - at least until she got the itch to go somewhere else. And she would, he’d teasingly assured her, against her every protest. “But the second that happens, I’ll be right beside you. I’ll go anywhere you want, Charlotte. Anywhere at all.” he’d vowed. “Doesn’t matter where, babe. Because for me, being with you is the only thing that matters. You’re my home.”) 

 

She watches as fat, white snowflakes drift toward the rocky shoreline in nonsensical swirls, then dissolve the second they hit the wet ground - as if they never even existed.

 

And Charlie weeps. 

 

She weeps and weeps and weeps, one violent sob after another racking her entire body, her knees buckling beneath her till she falls to the cold, hard floor. 

 

_Come back to me_ , her yearning, broken heart begs as she curls into a ball. _Please, Bass … just … come back._

 

Hot tears streak her pale face, and her eyes burn, lash lines red and angry. The loneliness pierces her soul like a sword.

 

_’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,_ her father had once quoted to her, and she hadn't understood the words back then. 

 

Truth is, she still doesn’t understand them now. Because nothing - not a fucking thing - is worse than the pain she currently feels. 

 

But then, perhaps this was always to be their story. Their end. Doomed from the start, they were. He died a hero, sure. But that does nothing to dull her suffering. Nothing to take away the pain. 

 

Theirs is no fairytale. Theirs is not a picture perfect Christmas because ... 

 

_Everybody leaves me._

 


End file.
